Easy Street
by Simon920
Summary: Against his better judgment, Robin submits to an interview. Rated K for language.


Summary: Robin submits to an interview against his better judgment.

Warnings: none

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. Beden65 

**Note:** This is another of a bunch of unfinished fics sitting, resting, half forgotten in a file which I've dusted off and sent off into the world. Enjoy or not as warranted. No promises; it is what it is.

 **Easy Street**

"Man, you've got it made; seriously, you live with Bruce Frigging Wayne, you drive a frigging Porsche. You have more money than even _you_ could ever spend in your whole life and you look—and it kills me to say this—but you look like Brad Pitt's better looking younger brother."

"Yeah, right."

"And you're frigging Honor Roll."

"I _study_."

"And let's not forget that whole 'ranked in the top three or whatever the hell it is gymnasts on the frigging planet' thing."

"Oh, c'mon—you _know_ how hard I work out, f'crissakes."

"I can't believe you're not getting laid."

"…"

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Exactly. You are, aren't you? You've been holding out on me. You're getting some."

"Roy—just fucking die, will you?" Robin was tired of this crap. He really was. Everywhere he went, everyone he talked to for more than five minutes seemed to think that his life was one big series of rolling sevens, that the sun always, always shown on his head and women threw themselves at him with the barest twitch of his little finger. As _if._ And Roy, of all people, should know better. _Seriously._

"Rob, m'friend, deep breaths and accept your lot in life. You're just one of those golden people—you _are_! Face it; every time you work a case you score the bust. Every time you enter some gymnastics meet you go home with another buttload of medals. Every time you talk to some reporter they end up enrolled in your frigging fan club, writing odes to the wonder that is you. Deny it all you want, but I ain't listening. When you were born all the stars aligned and the good fairies stood around waiting their turns to sprinkle you with fuckin' fairy dust—brains, looks, society ready manners, your much vaunted 'perfect bod' and you know _damn_ well you have the best ass in Herodom. You are a _symphony_ of perfection. Face it, you might as well have 'Easy Street' as your official address, dude."

"Roy, you're such an asshole."

Dick shook his head in exasperation. This conversation always went the same way; Roy would screw up something—anything; burn the bacon—and then spend hours bemoaning his lot in life. It was getting old, wearing thin and Dick was damn tired of it. And it wasn't just Roy who took this line and ran with it; every paper, magazine, unauthorized biography and stranger seemed to take the same view—his life was charmed and it never rained on his parade.

It was annoying, and it was getting on his nerves.

"Master Dick, if you don't mind, the master asks that you join him 'downstairs' as soon as you've finished your school assignments for the evening. Might I tell him when he might expect you?"

Dick looked up from his computer, he was swamped by the stupid German essay that was due in the morning, the one he'd thought was only supposed to be half a page. He'd finished that a week ago, no problem. Then he found out—today—that the presentation essay was supposed to be ten pages, in German. Crap. "It may be a while."

Dick was sitting in the school's library, working on his laptop, German/English- English/German dictionary at hand, struggling through page nine of the damn paper. It wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought, thank God but it was still a mess. They could basically write anything they wanted, so long as the grammar and spelling was perfect. It was just an exercise to see if the students had a handle on the language to the extent they were supposed to after five years of study.

"Hey Grayson—isn't your family German or something, isn't this like your first language?"

"No."

"Yeah, right—Frau Schmidt has been calling you 'Weinerblud' (Viennese Blood) all year thanks to your stupid perfect accent f'chrissakes. Like you'd have trouble with this, uh-huh."

"I work as hard as anyone does."

Steve snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sure you do."

Enough. "You're right; I get out my magic keyboard and my magic monitor and it writes itself while I sleep."

"…Wouldn't surprise me, Grayson. You've been honor roll since you came here; always teacher's pet and everyone sucks up to you 'cause of father Wayne." Steve made a sarcastic sign of the cross as the bell rang for the next class. "You landed on Easy Street, dude—we all know it and so do you. Face it, you're golden and you couldn't land on your ass if you were a frog." He picked up his books and started away. "Later."

Really? _Again_?

Dick hated interviews. They were intrusive and usually the questions were about as lame as it was possible for questions to be. Today was just another case in point. He'd been dodging the request from Time for the last month or so and was finally told by Bruce, in no uncertain terms, that public relations were part of the job if he insisted on being a costumed vigilante. If he wanted to keep his personal light under a bushel, that was just fine, but in that case he could go to the Academy, start as a patrolman and wear a GCPD uniform like everyone else. He would blend in with the rest of the force and he could be as anonymous as he wished. He could also then stick to the usual rules of a rookie cop and forget about the various perks of his chosen vocation.

His choice.

 _Fine._

So he was in Aparo Park on the west side of the city, leaning against an wrought iron fence with the Gotham River behind him. Some probably fresh out of journalism school dweeb was sitting on a near bench, grilling him for some profile piece he wished with all his heart wasn't happening. It wasn't helping that she'd started the meeting by telling him she could see why he'd been voted 'Best Butt' in People's latest poll. He nodded at a young mother passing by, pushing a stroller and looking like she wanted to ditch the kid, walk over and either ask for an autograph or a roll in the hay before her husband got home; he knew the look too well so turned his face back to the reporter, dismissing the mom.

Seriously—get just a little bit serious, please. Okay? "I don't want to seem rude, but could we keep the questions about the actual work?" He'd realized years ago that there were only about a dozen questions he ever got asked; anything else was just a variation on one of those themes.

"Of course, no problem." She looked over her notes, doing her level best to maintain her professional air while sitting five feet from the hunkiest hunk she'd ever seen. "So Robin, tell me how you manage to fit everything into a day—patrols with Batman almost every night, leading the Titans, not to mention school and I'm assuming that you have at least some time for yourself, right?" And she'd be more than happy to help him relax. Any time, anyway, anyhow. "You do go to school don't you? I mean, as opposed to home schooling or something."

"I was home schooled when I was younger, now I go to a regular school." He wasn't going to tell her he was in one of the most elite private schools in the Northeast.

"Not a professional children's school, a run of the mill high school?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Do you mind of I ask you how old you are?"

Yes, he minded. "I'm still technically a minor."

"'Not emancipated?"

"No."

"Huh." She gave him a doubtful look. "May I ask why not? I mean, you're about as much a minor as my parents are."

What the hell? "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, you say you're a minor so you're probably fifteen or sixteen but you're acknowledged to be one of the top detectives on the planet, you work with every known superhero group there is, you're rated one of the top gymnasts in the world and I'm betting that you could get along just fine on your own. I'm also guessing that somewhere, somehow you have a decent bank account behind you—or am I wrong?"

Robin took a beat and gave her a hard look, he hadn't expected an attack piece; was this woman trying to get him to raise to some kind of bait—common enough—or did she just have a bug up her butt about something? "Whatever my finances or my professional standing, I like having a home and family behind me. I don't think there's anything odd about that and I'm not emancipated because I have no reason to be at this point."

So he was going to play the evasion game. Fine. She regarded him for a long moment then moved on. "Your schedule must be daunting between everything you do—and that's just the things we know about. How do you fit it all in?"

This one again. "I'm organized, I have to be. You know how it is—I just take one thing at a time and move through the day like anyone else who's busy. It's not that bad as long as I keep on top of things."

"Well, you make it all look so easy! But you do have some personal time, right?"

"Of course, sure." Maybe an odd five minutes here and there.

She looked up. Please, don't let him blow off all his answers in three words. Please; her editor would personally place her butt in a professional sling if she didn't get control of this. "Like what? I mean, what do you like to do when you're not working or in school or something? You know—like do you go camping or to movies? Do you like to go clubbing or traveling or ski or something?"

"I hang out with my friends." When we're chasing mutant criminals… "I went camping last year out in the Grand Canyon; that was fun. Um, I, sometimes I, um, I like to sleep when I get some time off. I work out." He half shrugged and gave her this incredibly winsome smile. "I don't get a lot of free time, I guess."

She nodded encouragingly. She'd be happy to show him a good time if he got an evening off. Any time in fact if he would just talk now. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I'd really rather not talk about my personal life, if that's okay. I mean it's kind of personal, y'know?"

Christ. "Of course." He must, anyone who looked like he did had to have someone waiting for him to call. No brainer. "But I can't believe that someone like you would be sitting home Saturday night, right?" She was smiling and he wanted her to fall in the damn river and drown.

That was it, he'd had it. "What do you mean, 'someone like you'?"

She smiled her special smile, hoping for a reaction. "C'mon, you must have a mirror at home; good looks, great body, smart, a world class athlete, famous, respected by every police department on the planet as well as every hero organization in existence. You can go anywhere, meet anyone, write your own ticket; don't play innocent, Robin, you know what you are and you make it look like a walk in the park. Your life looks like you're rolling seven after seven."

"It's not like that…" Had she talked with Roy first? This sounded suspiciously like his usual line.

"Sure. Now, let's drop the false modesty, okay?" Play time was over and her patience was gone—she had to get answers or deal with unemployment.

The worm was turning, what a total bitch. "Excuse me?" The interview just took a sharp detour to the left.

"You know what I mean, this 'I'm just like anybody else and it's no big deal to be me' garbage. C'mon, you know your resume better than I do. You're planning to go to college, aren't you? Any thoughts about where you may end up—and do you think anyone would believe that you can't just pick up the phone at any school in the world and let them know to reserve you a room in the dorm?"

He paused, this was a no-win question if he gave her any kind of real answer. "I haven't decided where I'll be going or what I want to study."

"Really?" She smirked as she asked, clearly not believing it for a second.

"Really."

"You have to know that with your rep you could go anywhere you want, right? Or are you just thinking of going straight into some kind of police assignment—Interpol, M5, CIA?"

"I haven't even finished my junior year yet, I have plenty of time."

"No leanings? Ivy League, Big Ten, industry, the military?"

"Not yet, no. Maybe in a year I'll know but right now, no."

He could see 'bullshit' in her expression and the gloves were now off; so much for simpering fangirl handling the interview. She glanced at her notes. "There was a rumor that one of the Titans recently went through a period of pretty heavy drug use—care to comment?"

Another no-win question. Crap. " There was a problem, it's been resolved."

"Can you confirm that it was Speedy who had the problem? What was he using, how did he kick and is he still clean?"

"I don't have any comment about who it was or how they went clean because that would be an invasion of that person's privacy as well as their medical files— but I can confirm it was addressed fast enough and with enough support that it's no longer a problem. Should there be any back sliding it will be dealt with. Right now the Titans are back up to full strength and working well."

"The Titans and you in particular, are looked to as role models for kids all over the world. What kind of statement do you think this sends?"

Christ, you bitch—what do _you_ think? "I think it sends the message that we're human and have the same problems as anyone else but that we deal with them and support one another when there's a need. Is there some other interpretation you see?"

She looked at her notes again for a second. "It's been suggested that the legal community went easy on you—I mean 'you' to include all of the heroes—looked the other way and didn't pursue or press any charges despite the rumor that drugs were stolen from the NYPD evidence locker. Is that rumor true, by the way?"

Of course it was; Roy ripped off stuff from the locker and skimmed stuff whenever they made a bust, taking his share. "The situation has been dealt with and is resolved; that's all I'm going to say about this."

He was a hunk, but he wasn't giving her anything except canned replies and that wasn't going to get her a Pulitzer. She needed to dig deeper and get in his good graces. Unless… "Any truth to the rumors that you've had relationships with several of your coworkers?"

He took a beat while he tried to control the filthy look he knew he'd just hit her with. "I just said that I don't comment on my personal life."

"Or an alternate lifestyle?"

Oh, for the love of… "Are you asking me if I'm gay?"

"It's hardly a new rumor; you and Batman and there's been talk about you and Aqualad, Speedy—any truth?"

He'd heard this one since he was nine years old, 'nothing new but he'd been doing interviews long enough to know better than to swing in the dirt. "No comment."

"You do know that a lot of people take 'no comment' to mean yes."

"People are going to think what they're going to think, no matter what I say." He shrugged, smiled, laughed a little. "Anything else you'd like to ask?"

"Not if you're going to keep fobbing me off with nonanswers."

He was half annoyed and half guilty and he knew Bruce would be pissed so he took a mental deep breath and tried a little harder, smile still in place. "Look, ask me something I haven't heard before, okay? This stuff has been around since forever and you have to have known I wouldn't answer any of the junk you just asked—there must be something real you want to know."

If she wanted anything more than a fluff piece she knew she had to change tactics. Okay, she could play by any rules the kid wanted. She gathered her thoughts then, "All right. It's been rumored for years that you became Robin in response to a crime against your family. Is that true and, if it is, what happened?"

He'd never said anything about this for public consumption before but...

"Without going into details that would seriously compromise my personal security and that of my friends—my family was targeted by some criminals when I was young—younger. Yes, that was the catalyst which got me started doing this."

"They were killed?"All business now and hang the niceties.

"...Yes."

"And when you say 'family', are you referring to your parents?"

"Yes."

"Siblings too?" No answer.

"Did you know Batman before that?"

"I knew _of_ him, of course, but I'd never met him."

"So your parents were killed, murdered or whatever, and Batman solved the crime and you wanted to grow up to be just like him?"

"Something like that."

"Okay." She paused, framing her next question. "So if you'd be willing to talk about this, after you were orphaned"—I assume you were orphaned? He gave no reaction and she went on. "You went to live with Batman or some relatives or friends or something, is that right? And how old were you then, in your first appearances you look pretty young."

"I was in elementary school and, no, I wasn't taken in by Batman at any point." He'd been taken in by Bruce Wayne and it was just a white lie and semantics.

"Okay, so how did you end up doing this, then? With Batman, I mean."

How do you think? "He was there when my parents were killed; just a coincidence, nothing planned. He followed up, found where I was living and told me flat out that if I didn't get some kind of closure, I'd probably end up in some serious trouble."

"Such as?"

He smiled without humor, shifted his weight against the railing. "He was afraid that I'd turn to the dark side of the force, take the easy way out and become a criminal myself."

She looked surprised by that. "Was he right?"

"Probably, yes. I think I would have been a pretty good one, actually."

"Because?"

"Because I was angry and I didn't see that there was any down side to being a bad guy. The people who killed my parents got away with it—at least at that point they'd gotten away with it. It seemed to me like a pretty easy way to get money; it's not that hard to be a thief if you put your mind to it. You can make major money in, say, drug importing. I think I'd have done just fine."

"You think it's easy to be a thief? An easy career choice?"

"That's not what I said, I'm not talking about knocking over a gas station or the local bodega. I think that if you're smart about your targets, keep a low profile and have some creativity it's not that hard, at least for a while. Bernie Madoff did real well for himself for decades."

"He's serving a life sentence, his marriage ended, his son committed suicide and his other son died of cancer."

"Right, but until his ponzi scheme fell apart he was doing great, living real well. And he probably knew he'd get caught out eventually. He played the game well and then it ended and he's paying the price."

She seemed a little taken aback but his answer, wasn't Robin the world's role model for clean living and do-gooding? "So what happened to change your mind?"

"Batman came along and gave me the training and the chance to catch the men who ordered my parent's murders. I guess I felt empowered and realized that I could make a difference. I kept studying—I still am—and I do what I do."

"So you're being here talking to me is all because of Batman."

"Well, yeah. If it wasn't for him I'd be anonymous, just living my life, whatever that ended up being." His tone was thoughtful, considering what he was saying and choosing his words carefully.

"But—didn't he frighten you? Most little kids think of him as the boogey-man."

"Batman? Yeah, I guess so." That was the whole point of being the big bad Bat, right? Robin paused to form his answer. Finally, "He—after what I'd seen, after my parents died, I don't think anything could ever be that frightening. He was intimidating at first, sure, but he understood me and I came to understand him, it took a little while, but we ended up on the same page. More or less, anyway."

"More of less?"

"We're two different people, we have different ways of looking at things. We agree about most things but we're not identical." He shrugged, stressing his take. "C'mon, anyone who's ever seen us can see that we're different, have different personalities."

"Does he _ever_ laugh?"

Robin smiled at that, Roy had asked him just last night. "Yeah, sure, sometimes. Once in a while."

That was a lot more than she'd hoped of getting from the kid. Maybe he'd go another extra step. "Any regrets? 'Things you'd change, do over?"

He paused, hesitated, his head turned to watch a freighter go by for a long few minutes. "I don't believe in regrets. I know that's a cliché but it's true; there's usually nothing you can do about them besides suck it up and keep going and try not to make the same mistake again."

"What mistakes?"

A thoughtful intake of breath. "I'd try harder to keep in touch, closer touch with the friends from my old life. I mean more than just Christmas cards and occasional visits. I do try, but I don't have much spare time and it's difficult; I know that sounds lame, but it's true, at least most of the time. When I do see them things have changed-I mean of course things change but we've all gone in different directions so it gets harder and harder to connect. And I, I might have made more of an effort to see some of the family members who..." He stopped himself.

"Family members who...?"

"Nothing, forget that, strike it."

"'Off the record?"

"No." Period. Don't go there. Drop it.

"All right. Is there anything else you'd like to set straight?" She suppressed a laugh. "I know your fans would like to know if your virtue is still intact."

Robin smiled, blushed and said nothing.

"Not even a hint?"

"A gentleman doesn't discuss such things, or so I've been told." But it was said with a smile.

Robin's cell phone rang, glancing at the screen he answered, said 'Okay' and ended the call. "I've got to go. You got everything you needed?"

"No but I'll take it unless you'd be willing to meet again so we can talk some more." Seeing him just shake his head 'no', she stood, putting the recorder back in her bag and shaking out her skirt as Robin nodded to her, put his helmet on his head and roared off, cape flapping in the breeze.

The article appeared two weeks later, Robin on the cover with the headline; 'Robin Revealed', a snide reference to the tabloid treatment he was too used to. The body of the text was a reasonably accurate look at the stresses and demands on a young person in Robin's unique position.

" _Though there have been countless questions and debate about the wisdom, and in some cases, legality of allowing minors to actively function as vigilantes, Robin has long been one of the shining success stories. This reporter had the rare pleasure of a several hour long free-wheeling interview with this exceptional young man and came away impressed._

 _Smart, articulate and clear about his goals, motivations and thoughts about his life, he is as good and respected a roll model as exists today..."_ The final sentence? _"Aside from whatever it was which caused this remarkable young man to choose the path he has, clearly, considering his obvious intelligence, abilities, talent and innate personal magnetism, he's cruising down Easy Street as far as he wants to stay on the ride."_

The interview ran over several pages with a dozen full color photographs and generated a tremendous amount of mail ranging from thanks from grateful fangirls 'those pictures were—oh my god. Why didn't you warn us?' to complaints from various fringe groups decrying 'out of control fanatics who take the law into their own hands'.

"Man, can you believe this? 'Must have been a slow news weeks if this is the best they can do for a cover story."

Dick looked up from his laptop, running the German essay through spell-check one last time. "Jealousy is a petty and childish reaction, Steve. Unbecoming."

"You think Robin thanked her for the snow job? I'm betting he seriously got lucky if that reporter kissed his ass this much-I'm betting it was literally, if you get my meaning."

"Whatever. Hey, drop it, okay?" Realizing that Dick had enough, Steve left to do actually get some work done, ending the discussion and leaving the magazine on the library table. Steve gone, Dick leafed through the pages, skimming to the last page, shaking his head as he flipped through.

Reading the last sentence was more than he...no. It was exactly what he expected. Standing up he threw the magazine against the wall, somehow satisfied that several pages were torn out by the force of hitting the wall.

Every eye in the room riveted on him, the disbelieving and clearly furious librarian about to tear him a new one he raised his hand to stop her. "Sorry." Closing his laptop, he gathered his stuff then walked over to the mess he'd made, picked up the pieces and placed them in the recycling pail.

Heading to his next class he made a decision, he didn't care what Bruce said...no more interviews...ever. Enough.

2/27/16

12


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